


Open Up Your Plans and Damn You're Free

by khasael



Series: Hale and Hearty [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Date Night, Fluff, M/M, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Romance, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 19:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13958604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: Derek shrugs. "I've heard that date nights shouldn't end after marriage," he says, feeling his cheeks flush.Stiles just stares at him. "...But we didn't even datebeforemarriage."





	Open Up Your Plans and Damn You're Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Byaghro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byaghro/gifts).



> Dedicated to Byaghro, since she was half-responsible for this entire series, and posted only a couple of hours after her actual birthday (so close!). Much thanks to the amazing Groolover for the beta.
> 
> No angst in this one. Pretty much just pure, unadulterated fluff.
> 
> Once again, apologizing for the absolutely ludicrous delay in posting this installment. Since the last one, I've bought a home, moved, and taken a new, physically demanding job with pretty extreme hours that had me so physically exhausted for the first few months that I could barely FUNCTION each day after I clocked out. And then I just got distracted by life and some other things. All adjusted now. I think.

Derek's pretty sure that of all the things in his life he's ever been nervous or uncertain about, this moment shouldn't even register.

And yet, here he is.

It's mostly because Stiles hasn't answered his texts, he thinks as he hits the "call" button on his phone. That's sixty percent of it. As the phone hits its fifth ring, he mentally amends that number to seventy-five. Stiles is a product of his generation. He's always got his phone on him. And, while Derek doesn't expect his husband to be at his every beck and call, if he can't get a hold of Stiles, a lot of planning is going to go to waste.

He tries not to let himself even _think_ about the possibility of something bad having happened to Stiles. Again.

"Oh just pick _up_ already," Derek mutters after the sixth ring. He doesn't trust that any voicemail he leaves will get listened to right away, and he'd rather have some form of real-time discussion. He's just about to hang up and try another text when Stiles picks up, sounding out of breath.

"Oh my God, I am so glad you called. I've been looking for my damned phone for the last hour, and my text alerts aren't long enough that I could pinpoint the source of the sound. I was going kind of nuts, seriously."

"Where was it?" Derek asks. Stiles loses all manner of things, all the time. Derek's helped him ransack both of their homes before, in attempts to find whatever important-at-the-moment item has up and disappeared. "It wasn't in the fridge, was it?" He'd never have really thought to ask, except that the fridge was exactly where they'd found Stiles's wallet last week.

"No, uh," Stiles says, and Derek can tell he's a little embarrassed. "In one of the boxes I'd already sealed shut, actually. So...it might have really taken me forever to find it, without your call."

Derek snorts. "Well, glad to be of service."

"So, what's up?"

"I was just wondering when you might be done with packing stuff up for the day," Derek says, hoping he sounds casual, and not like he's been trying to get the answer to that question for the last four hours.

"I think I've pretty much hit my limit, actually. Uh. After I repack the box my phone was in, I mean. I am so freaking over putting things into moving boxes."

"Yeah, I know how you feel." Derek's job is a little easier on that front. He already has a storage unit outside of Beacon Hills that's held some of his stuff for years, and there's another he's still paying for out in New York, but more than half of what's in that one was Laura's. His loft has never exactly been cluttered, but he's still had to pack up more shit in the last two weeks than he'd realized he even owned, in preparation for the upcoming relocation to Los Angeles. Stiles, on the other hand, has a lifetime's worth of stuff to go through, and he's got to figure out which of his belongings gets packed up for immediate use for school, which will go with Derek to the place they'll share together, and which things can stay at his dad's place for the time being. "Hey, why don't you wrap up with all that, get cleaned up, and I'll pick you up in an hour?"

That was less than totally casual, and he can tell Stiles scents at least a little bit of something, because there's the smallest of beats before he responds. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Cool. Oh, and maybe you could wear something other than shorts and a T-shirt?"

This time, Derek knows Stiles is probably doing that weird squinty face of his in the pause on the other end of the phone. "...Yeah, I can make that happen. So, uh, just _how_ 'not shorts and a T-shirt' are we talking? Like, do I need to wear a tie, or...?"

Derek laughs a little. "No. I just thought it'd be nice to see you in those new black slacks you just got the other day. You said Lydia insisted you had to buy them, and I'm kind of curious why."

"Oh!" Stiles's grin is apparent, even through the phone. "Dude, I'm not gonna lie, she totally knows what the fuck she's talking about when it comes to flattering cuts and that shit. I forgot you hadn't seen them yet. Yeah, I can totally wear those." He pauses, and Derek just _knows_ he's doing that little eyebrow waggle thing, from his next words. "Does that mean I get to see you in something just as good?"

"I'll see what I can find lying around that's clean," Derek says, as if he hadn't spent time this morning deciding whether or not his clothes needed ironing. 

"Good enough for me," Stiles says with a little bit of a laugh. "All right. See you in an hour." And with that, he's ended the call from his side...and hopefully put his phone somewhere easy to remember. 

Derek takes his time during his own shower, occupying himself with reviewing mental checklists related to all of the final errands and specific tasks that need to be completed before moving day. He's been trying to take care of as many mundane details as possible without bothering Stiles, whose mental energy has been on preparing for the upcoming year at college and trying to set his father's deputies up in secret rotations to make sure the sheriff sticks to his diet plan at least eighty-five percent of the time now that Stiles won't be around to keep tabs on that. The majority of moving-related details have already been settled, and Derek's actually sort of surprised one of the ones Stiles doesn't seem to care about is where, exactly, they'll be living together. "Meh, I trust you," Stiles had told him three weeks ago, on their ride back from their honeymoon trip. "Just don't pick somewhere too far away to reasonably commute to campus, and I'll be happy. Oh, and not anywhere too stabby, if we can afford it."

"Keep out of the areas you're worried about getting stabbed by random strangers," Derek had replied, eyebrows raised. "Got it." He'd wondered if Stiles not wanting to be immersed in that particular selection had anything to do with their earlier casual glance at some real estate and rental listings online for Los Angeles, and the way Stiles's heart rate had immediately increased about thirty percent once he saw the numbers following the dollar sign in those listings. Derek can't exactly blame him. He knows things have been tight at points during the years since Stiles's mom got sick, and he is fully aware that Stiles has stressed about money in his teens more than anyone who isn't having to pay for their own rent or mortgage ever should. The week after their first wedding, Derek had offered to sit down with Stiles and show him all of his bank records and other financial documents, in the name of total transparency, but Stiles had shaken his head. "I'm not saying I want to be in the dark," he'd said. "But I don't know that I can handle all of those details just yet. Just...let me wrap my head around some other things first, and we'll revisit it and do it right, soon. I mean, we'll be filing taxes together, right? Holy shit, that's weird. Okay. Yeah. We'll go over it before then. Just, all I guess I want to know is...general ballpark. Give me an adjective. Strapped? Comfortable? Filthy rich?"

Derek had hesitated for about five seconds, trying to figure out how to best answer that. If they played their cards right and invested wisely and spent at a reasonable rate, there was technically no reason either of them would really _have_ to work for the rest of their lives. They could get by. It was much safer to not trust that, of course, but it meant they weren't likely to be plunged into sudden bankruptcy or anything. It was sort of fucked up to think about how that was another thing the fire had changed about his life—as he and Laura had ended up being the only beneficiaries on so many insurance policies, there was more money than Derek would have otherwise had access to, even given his parents' own quite healthy financial situation. And once he'd ended up the sole beneficiary of all of Laura's property, investments, and other such things, it had only become more ridiculous. Hell, even after he'd made sure Cora was set up, there was more money than Derek could reasonably blow through without some pretty concerted effort. "Not extravagant, but maybe just a little on the nicer end of comfortable?"

Stiles had looked at him like he really wanted to ask additional questions, but was afraid of whatever answers he might get. "Soooo...I'm just gonna tell myself that I don't have to worry about eating nothing but ramen during my college years unless I actually _want_ to, but also I shouldn't accidentally destroy any valuable works of art or damage a whole library wing's worth of books that I'll have to replace. That cool with you for now?"

Derek had blinked. "Uh. Yeah. That seems like a reasonable guideline."

By the time Derek's doing up the buttons of his shirt, he's got a pretty solid handle on what has to be taken care of in the next week, before Stiles has to check in on campus. It's nothing all that complicated, and mostly involves narrowing their potential residences down from four to one, and then getting the necessary paperwork completed. Derek's already set up meetings to see three of those places in person tomorrow afternoon, even though it means he's going to have to leave pretty early in the morning to get all the way down to LA in time. And while that means their plans tonight can't keep them out till all hours, that's not necessarily a bad thing. It actually fits the vibe Derek's going for, in planning all of this.

"I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to step away from cardboard boxes and packing ta—wow, okay, thumbs up on that shirt choice, dear God, you need like five more of those in your closet," is how Stiles answers the door about ten seconds after Derek rings the bell. "Also, dude, you have your own set of keys to this place, why didn't you just walk on in?"

Derek can't help but smile a little. "Well, I wanted to do this right."

Stiles cocks his head slightly to the side. "Do what right?"

"Never mind. It's been a long week." He leans in and gives Stiles a quick kiss on the cheek. "Now grab your shit so we can get away from all this packing like you wanted. Don't want to be late."

Stiles gives him a weird look, but after a moment he shrugs to himself and runs upstairs. Derek can hear him rummaging around in his room for a moment, and then the faucet in the bathroom runs for a few moments before Stiles darts back into his room and then bounces down the stairs, carrying his wallet and phone and smelling faintly like antibacterial hand soap. "Okay. Done. Also, late for what?"

"Dinner. Unless you've eaten?"

"Oh my God, yes to dinner. I had like half a bag of potato chips that my dad _thought_ he had well-hidden, but that was almost six hours ago. I didn't think all of this stuff was going to take so long, seriously." Stiles practically shoves Derek out the front door ahead of him, and it isn't until he's buckling into the passenger's seat of the Camaro that he even bothers to ask where they're going.

"Thought we'd try someplace new," Derek says casually. "The diner's great, but I kind of wanted something a little different." Not that watching Stiles drink one of the diner's thick milkshakes isn't all sorts of interesting most of the time, especially when his cheeks hollow as he tries to get the first swallow to rise up through the straw and he makes half-indecent sounds once he's finally rewarded for his efforts.

"Is that why you told me to wear something kinda nice?" Stiles asks, reaching for the radio.

"Maybe a little part of it. And Lydia was right, by the way. Those slacks are definitely a good investment." He says it mostly to watch the flush bloom in Stiles's cheeks, but it's true as well.

"I still don't look anywhere near as good as you do," Stiles mutters, and Derek pauses at the end of the driveway, his tires already cut to let him back out onto the road. 

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Derek asks, angling himself towards his husband. "You're way more attractive than you give yourself credit for." He reaches over and traces his thumb over Stiles's left cheekbone and down to his jaw, so that Stiles's chin is cupped gently in his hand. "And I fucking love the way you look." He logs the slight temperature spike of Stiles's skin underneath Derek's fingertips as well as the way Stiles's eyes dilate just a fraction. He even hears the sub-vocal high-pitched, split-second noise that comes from somewhere in Stiles's throat that normal human ears wouldn't pick up on top of the soft hitch of breath. "Remember that, okay?"

"Okay," Stiles answers after a beat, and Derek can smell the light, sweet scent of happiness mingling with the subtle, darker, musky one of mild arousal. "I'll try." And whether Stiles is aware of it or not, the statement rings honest to Derek's ears.

"Good," Derek murmurs, giving Stiles's cheek one more brief stroke, half affection and half subconscious scentmarking behavior, before he puts his hands back on the steering wheel and backs the rest of the way out of the driveway.

Stiles raises his eyebrows a little when they step inside Rosso, and they go a little higher still when Derek says "reservation for Hale" when the hostess asks if it's just the two of them tonight. But he keeps quiet as they're led back to their seats, a small round table that's quite clearly meant for only two, tucked back into a corner where the lighting is dim and supplemented by a trio of small candles in the center.

Once they sit, however, Stiles gives Derek a squinting look, opens his menu, squints at that even more skeptically, and then lowers it to look directly at Derek with a mildly accusing expression. "What?" Derek asks, wondering if Stiles is going to give him shit for this choice, or has an objection to Derek's plans for them this evening.

"You didn't tell me to wear something that wouldn't show if I splattered tomato sauce on my shirt while eating," Stiles says with a small huff, and Derek relaxes and laughs.

"Stain removers and dry cleaning places exist for a reason," Derek offers. "Or you could just not get something with tomato sauce."

"Oh, yeah, like that's likely to happen in an Italian restaurant. What else would I get, hm?"

"Something with alfredo, madeira, or olive oil?" Not like any of those would necessarily leave Stiles's shirt unscathed, but they are technically alternative options. 

Stiles just hmphs at him and turns his attention back to the menu, but one corner of his mouth is up in a crooked smile. 

The food is pretty good, and dinner is pleasant overall. Derek bans talk of stressful things like moving or worrying how Stiles is going to keep his dad healthy and following his diet from hundreds of miles away and, after a pause that clearly has Stiles rooting around his brain for other topics, they settle on dissecting the fantasy series Derek's just finished, having taken Stiles's suggestion he give it a shot. "I mean, the actual magic theory the world's built on is cool, I'll give you that," Stiles says, gesturing with his fork full of pasta in a way that makes Derek worry for both Stiles's shirt and that of the guy sitting at the nearest table, "but they've seriously limited themselves in a way that kind of killed the logic of the big showdown."

"Well, that, and some of the limitations they set could have been worked around if the villain had some actual three-dimensional reason for not killing the hero's sidekick when he had the chance, instead of making it some random coincidence that his brother just happened to show up right then," Derek agrees. "And the other plot hole could have been fixed if the author had known anything about alchemy."

Stiles gapes at him. "Oh my God, I fucking love you," he says, and it's loud and fervent enough that the waitress standing behind him refilling someone else's wine glass barely smothers a giggle. "Like. Seriously."

Derek can feel the heat rise in his own cheeks this time, and he doesn't even care if his automatic grin makes him look ridiculous. "It's mutual, you know."

"We're gonna have to remember this place," Stiles says as they climb into the car thirty minutes later. "Not to knock the diner or anything, but dinner here was seriously awesome."

"Glad you enjoyed it," Derek says, honestly pleased Stiles has such a positive experience of the meal. 

"Yeah. You did good. So, what, back home?"

Derek shrugs. "Maybe not quite yet. Unless you want to."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, dude. I'm not exactly eager to get back to the packing right this second. Even if you just wanna drive around aimlessly, it keeps me away from bubble wrap and packing tape, and I am all for that right now."

"Good to know," Derek says with a nod. The rest of the evening doesn't hinge on any sort of schedule, unlike dinner reservations, but he's glad Stiles would rather stay out with him than go immediately back to his dad's place. "I think I can work with that."

Stiles is in the middle of some story about his and Scott's adventures in trying to browse engagement rings for Allison, because Scott's decided that's a thing he wants to make happen, even if he doesn't have a timetable for it quite yet, when he pauses and tilts his head curiously. "Okay, this isn't an area we normally come to. Are you just feeling my random driving suggestion?"

"I've got a place in mind, actually," Derek tells him. "We're almost there."

"Huh. Okay." Stiles gives him a little shrug and gets back to his story, and Derek lets the sound of his voice wash over him, relaxing in its familiarity.

Stiles is still talking when Derek turns off the ignition, and he keeps talking as they both climb out of the car. He's so invested in relaying the best details of his story that he just follows Derek as he walks, and it's maybe ninety seconds later that he stops and actually looks around, story finished. Derek's going to have to remember to look out for that detail in the future, so it doesn't get Stiles in some sort of trouble. Again.

"Dude, I haven't been here since I was, like, six," Stiles says, taking in his surroundings. He lets out an offended-sounding squawk. "And that playground was nowhere _near_ that intense twelve years ago, what the hell? Kids are fucking _spoiled_ these days." He huffs. "When I was a kid, we had to make do with two swings, a slide, and some monkey bars. We thought we'd died and gone to heaven when the school got one of those spider web domes with the metal bars and the roundabout-merry-go-round things when I was in third grade." 

Derek laughs and moves closer so that their shoulders bump together. The playground off to their right has eight swings, two kinds of slides, horizontal bars and pull up bars, a zip-line, monkey bars _and_ hanging rings, a couple of firemen's poles, and about two dozen platforms to climb. "You guys didn't have the see-saw?" He remembers that from his own days at this park, when he was maybe five or six. One of the sets of swings is currently occupying that spot.

"Nah, they tore that shit down when I was...I dunno, really little. Maybe four? Some kids got hurt, and there were a couple of older ones that kinda launched some other kids a bunch of times, supposedly by accident."

Derek clears his throat. "Uh. Those last kids were probably my cousins." He remembers his aunt reading her two boys the riot act about something like that.

Stiles grins. "Why am I not one hundred percent surprised? Also, any particular reason we're here? Or did you just want to hear me rant about how I apparently missed out on awesome playground time?"

"I thought it might be nice to just sort of walk around. The weather's nice, it's late enough that most of the kids are gone, and..."

"And?"

"And I've heard that date nights shouldn't end after marriage," Derek says, feeling his cheeks flush.

Stiles just stares at him. "...But we didn't even date _before_ marriage."

Derek flushes a little more. "I know. Doesn't mean we can't make up for lost time, does it?"

"No," Stiles says, a smile slowly spreading wide across his face. "It definitely doesn't mean that." He reaches out and laces their fingers together anyway, giving Derek's hand a small squeeze as they start to walk along one of the concrete paths that winds around the perimeter of the park.

The park Derek's chosen is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, on the northern edge of the city. There are three other parks within the city limits—two of which also have playgrounds, and one of those also has tennis courts and is near the city pool—but this is the only one that has a considerable amount of open space, trees, and area with specially-cultivated flora. It's always going to be the one he picks.

"Ooh, look, the guy with the ice cream cart's still here," Stiles says, pointing at a spot just around the next turn of the path. 

Derek's amused as hell that Stiles clocked the guy before _he_ did, even without any sort of supernatural boost to his senses. "Probably not for long. Sun's about to set," Derek points out. "Come on, let's hurry." He tugs on Stiles's hand to lead them across the grass on a more direct path to the cart and grins to himself when he hears Stiles's murmured "fuck yeah." Stiles debates for a few moments between a bomb pop and a chocolate-dipped bar of chocolate ice cream on a stick, finally going with all the chocolate, and Derek selects one of the strawberry shortcake bars he hasn't had in over a decade. "Keep the change," Derek murmurs as he hands the guy a twenty, following Stiles back onto the concrete path.

They walk slowly as they eat, trying not to make messes of themselves, and Derek would feel bad for holding up anyone walking behind them, except that there aren't many people left in the park right now. There's another couple lounging on a blanket in the middle of the grass, one exhausted-looking mother (with a small child who's fast asleep slung over her shoulder) walking in the direction of the parking lot, and a guy of maybe sixty sitting against one of the thicker trees, a sketchbook propped against his knees and a charcoal-smudged hand stroking the German Shepherd lying at his side. When a jogger passes them, headed in the opposite direction, Derek moves out of the way, tosses his ice cream stick and wrapper into a garbage can along the main path, and gestures off to their left to Stiles, indicating for him to follow.

There's a small little wooden bridge over what can't generously be called a river or even stream, and Derek walks over that and heads for the small, slightly-hidden resting spot he knows is there, almost an alcove of sorts hidden behind a number of tall, old trees. There's a large concrete flowerbed with retaining walls over two feet high, with a bench nestled up against one of them. On the other side of the space is a small fountain, fed by a waterfall a few dozen feet away, and it's the short cliff with the waterfall that helps keep the space hidden from the main view of the path. Some cities may worry about people hiding in a place like this, ruining the carefully-tended fauna or sculpted stone structures or partaking in illicit activities, but this one is safe from problems like that. 

Derek sits on the bench and watches as Stiles takes in the overall view before he moves towards the flowerbed. "Dude, it's kind of interesting—there are some seriously powerful plants in this thing," he says, running his fingers carefully over the tops of some small white flowers. "I mean, there's anise, which smells nice, and lavender and lilac, which are pretty, and the typical plants you kind of expect, like roses and ferns and stuff, but a whole lot of this shit is actually really good for protection and, like...love. Like, even the hawthorn tree behind the bench you're on." He strokes a thumb softly over the petal of a violet. "I don't recognize everything in here, and I don't think I've ever even _seen_ whatever those really pretty blue flowers in the middle are, but... Yeah." He sits down next to Derek and stretches out his legs. "I wonder if whoever planted everything meant to do it intentionally, or if it's just kind of a really nice coincidence."

"It's pretty deliberate," Derek says, putting his arm around Stiles when he rests his head on Derek's shoulder. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets his other senses take over, fully cataloging this moment. He can smell the different flowers and herbs on the light breeze that ruffles his hair, blending with the wet, mossy green scents of the area near the fountain and waterfall. There's the light, calming sound of trickling water in front of him and to the right, and the muted sound of a dog barking across the park from outside the trees behind them. He can even feel the slow but steady drop in temperature as the sun sinks in the west, not bright through his eyelids, but instead lighting his vision a deeper pinkish-orange that mimics the colors of the sunset. But over all of that is Stiles: the in-and-out of his breath and soothing thud of his heartbeat, relaxed and happy; the warmth of his body against Derek's own; the light scents of his usual understated deodorant, soap, detergent, and shampoo, spiked with a slightly stronger tinge of chocolate and just the faintest hint of garlic from their dinner an hour ago, all layered over the specific scent of his warm skin and the very essence of Stiles that Derek could identify anywhere, even in the faintest amounts. 

"This is nice," Stiles murmurs a few minutes later, nuzzling his face into Derek's neck, an action that always makes Derek's nerves light up a little, knowing Stiles does it because it's warm and affectionate and somewhat instinctual and also because he's aware it does something to Derek to have their scents so obviously intertwined and mingled together in such an intimate way, and he likes the knowledge of it all. "Did you find this place recently?"

"I've known about it for a while," Derek murmurs against the crown of Stiles's head where a few strands are tickling his cheek.

"Oh? How's that?"

Derek rubs the tip of his nose against Stiles's hairline. "Check the armrest on your side."

Stiles reaches out one arm and runs his hand over the wood, pausing when his fingers slide over the small brass plate at the center. He sits up so he can see the engraved letters, his eyebrows going up as he reads the short inscription. "'In memory of T and M Hale'." He looks up at Derek. "T and M? Your...your parents, right?"

Derek nods. "Talia and Michael. It used to say 'donated by', but Laura and I had it changed on what would have been their twenty-fifth anniversary."

"Your parents donated a bench to the park?"

"This whole spot, actually. Fountain, flowerbed, bench, everything." 

"Seriously? Why? Just random philanthropy, or love of gardens, or what?"

"It's where my dad proposed. Right where we're sitting."

"Holy crap." Stiles stares at him for a moment. "That is like some...some almost fairy tale, romantic movie shit."

Derek laughs softly. "I know. Sorry I didn't exactly inherit that instinct."

"Pfft, whatever," Stiles says, shoving lightly at Derek's arm before settling in again at his side. "Though I guess that explains why you sounded so sure about the stuff in here being deliberately chosen. You know what it all is, don't you?"

"I do," Derek confirms. Most of the plants surrounding them are indeed here for protection and love, and the rest are ones his father knew his mother was particularly fond of, either due to color or fragrance. Some days, even all these years later, he gets a whiff of fresh violets and thinks of his dad helping him and Laura pick a small bouquet of them to deliver to their mother as a gift.

They stay hidden in the small garden for a while longer, until the sky transitions from the bright purple hue of the myrtle flowers to that of the darker violets. "Time to go," Derek murmurs, hating to break the comfortable repose. "I have a really early morning ahead, and we should get you home, too."

"Okay," Stiles agrees, but it's reluctant. He runs one finger over the brass plaque as Derek stands, then does a double-take as Derek vaults up onto the thigh-high concrete barrier around the square garden plot. "What are you—?" he starts to ask, cutting himself off when Derek plucks a flower from the center of the cultivated collection and leaps neatly back down to where Stiles stands. 

"Blue orchid," Derek says, holding it up so it's illuminated by the garden path light over his shoulder. "Pretty much all blue orchids you see are either fake flowers, or dyed. But this one's not. So rare you could consider it mythical. Here." He offers it to Stiles, who takes it gingerly to inspect it. "No," he says, shaking his head when Stiles tries to hand it back. "It's yours."

"You..." Stiles starts to say, but he doesn't finish his thought. Instead, he runs his fingers through Derek's hair and leans in for a gentle, sweet kiss that lights up Derek's whole body and makes his chest feel tight, in a good way. When they finally break it off, Derek doesn't even remember to ask Stiles what he meant to say, both his head and heart too full to think of anything past the emotion. 

Fuck, he loves Stiles.

"I love you," Stiles breathes, almost as if he's echoing Derek's own thoughts, and Derek brings up his hand to Stiles's cheek to guide them back together for another kiss, this one longer and deeper and more intensely intimate. He kisses Stiles, feeling like he's invincible and nothing in the world can stop them when they're together like this. This is the feeling that gave life to thousands of poems and songs and stories, and Derek never thought he'd really get to have something like this in his life.

"I love you, too," Derek tells him, looking right into Stiles's beautiful, wide eyes and letting them see into him as far as Stiles wants. Stiles reaches up his right hand, the one not holding the flower, and rubs his palm down the side of Derek's face and down over his neck, pausing with his thumb resting over Derek's Adam's apple. Derek shivers involuntarily and feels every last bit of the wolf he is thrill over the sentiment in Stiles's actions. He turns his head so that his mouth rests against the palm of Stiles's hand, slightly muffling his next words. "So fucking much."

Stiles's answering smile and bared neck is the perfect response, and Derek doesn't hesitate to leave his scent against the offered skin, nipping slightly at the place he knows Stiles likes best. "Take me home," Stiles murmurs, Derek's mouth still against his neck, his pulse thudding heavily. "I know you've got to head out to LA stupidly early, but I don't care. Take me home and mark me up."

"Yeah," Derek says, unable to make himself argue. "We can do that."

They strip each other down slowly once they make it back to the loft, and Derek lets his hands roam over every last inch of pale skin, fingers lightly grazing over the moles and scars scattered across Stiles's body, loving every shiver and sharp inhale that results. There's a slow, sweet heat filling Derek's body and head that urges him to take his time with everything, to let them both savor the evening in a way they don't always get to do. There's enough communication between them in just gasps and moans and other small, quiet noises that neither of them seem to care much about talking. Derek paces himself based upon Stiles's breathing pattern and heart rate, a skill he knows some might consider cheating but Stiles has told him is one of the hottest abilities he can think of, and he times his thrusts and strokes accordingly, holding off on biting down on Stiles's shoulder until the moment just before Stiles hits his climax and bears down around Derek, sending them both over the edge within seconds of each other.

Afterwards, Derek has Stiles pressed close against him, his nose buried in Stiles's neck while he runs a hand slowly up and down Stiles's side, and Stiles sighs and reaches for Derek, pulling their joined hands together and pressing them both against Stiles's chest. "Thank you," Stiles murmurs, his voice thick with pleasure and impending sleep.

"For what?"

Stiles manages to roll himself over so he's facing Derek. "For everything, tonight." He opens his eyes halfway and smiles up at Derek. "You said something earlier about being sorry for not being romantic, but you're wrong. Tonight was definitely romantic."

"Because of dinner and a walk in the park?"

Stiles laughs, just a little. "That, yeah, I guess. I just meant everything, seriously. From the minute you picked me up until right this very moment. Hell, you even got me a flower. One that actually means something, and not just a dozen random roses you picked up at the grocery store. Some people don't even really try, but you did." He yawns. "And you knocked it out of the park."

Derek can't help the small, fluttering thrill of pride that blooms in his chest. He draws Stiles closer, running one hand up and down Stiles's back until the last of him goes lax and his breathing deepens, indicating he's dropped off to sleep. "You're worth it," Derek murmurs, even though Stiles likely doesn't hear him at all. 

He's more than worth it, in fact.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Yeah, I'm gonna try to NOT wait another 2 years to post the next one, unlike the last damn two of these.


End file.
